


The Manuscript

by lettalady



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Gen, Tom Hiddleston AU, southern gothic feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: “I do not want to just read books; I want to climb inside them and live there.”-It’s easy to fall in love with a good story, or allow a place to be your quiet reprieve. It’s easy to let your guard down and invite the What Ifs in, to imagine what it would be like to abandon obligation and reinvent yourself. Just remember: Not every quiet corner is a peaceful one. Not every daydream will let you leave.
Kudos: 1





	1. One

**T** om is waffling between annoyance with himself and the desire to just pull over on this narrow two lane road to lean forward to rest his head on the wheel. Driving had seemed adventurous at the time. Insisting that he could go it alone and handle all the particulars himself had only seemed logical. He should have gone the route of public transport, or contracted a driver – then at least he could be resting while someone else safely got him to his destination.

He’s tried to do too much. He talked himself out of turning off the route at the last town he’d driven through, reasoning what – that something else would present shortly? Something – more? Something recognizable. A chain. Now he’s just faced with this stretch of nothing.

Exhaustion is closing in on him – and that makes being on the road dangerous – both for him and those few souls on the back roads he’s chosen to travel. Atmosphere and wanting to soak up the history of the area had been his reasoning. He’d forgotten the bypasses had lured all the hotels, as well as the traffic he was trying to avoid. The lack of other commuters on the road had been a blessing at first but now he almost yearns for another car – if just to break the monotony.

He spots an exit marker almost hidden in the overgrowth and starts thanking his lucky stars that something popped up in the seemingly endless expanse of trees. He takes the turn onto the side road with the intention of finding a spot to get out and stretch. It won’t be an option much longer, considering the sun is rapidly descending. Walking around a moment might help to shake away the dragging feeling. Riding with the windows down has helped a bit – the rush of air helping to keep him moderately alert.

But there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to pull over. Nowhere designed to harbor a car – so he keeps driving on the access road, further and further away from his route. Frustratingly it’s just more of the same - trees twisting on either side of the road, stretching across to reach out towards one another like yearning lovers.

It’s darker down this road, too. The trees block out most of the beautiful oranges and reds of the fading sunlight. Maybe turning off the route hadn’t been the best plan. Who wants to be driving around unfamiliar woods in the dark? When he finds someplace he can actually turn around, Tom swears to himself he’ll do just that.

Now it’s a game of spotting any such clearing. No driveways present themselves. No extended shoulders that offer any room to maneuver the car in a three point turn. There are no scenic viewpoints – though the meandering body of water – river, creek, tributary? – to his right certainly might prove breathtaking if the sunset were allowed to hit it just right. The road seems to follow the river’s meandering path for a ways before the road veers one way, the river the other – taking the water almost out of view.

Right now he’s too tired to wonder at the change in the route of the road. The heat of the day, the early wake up call, work, and the monotony of driving for hours has zapped his usual surplus of energy. Surely this access road leads somewhere, _to_ somewhere. Surely there are inhabitants that drive this cracked pavement daily. A sign at the edge of the road catches his attention: a Bed & Breakfast. The sign is the only warning he gets before the brief opening, a turnoff!, appears off to his right between the road and the now beyond-his-field-of-view river.

Something about the sign speaks to him. It makes him curious as to the place itself. Sitting there letting the car idle with his arm resting on the ledge of the window he is aware of the change in temperature – an effect of being so close to this body of water? Or just being tucked away within this dense area of trees? He toys with the idea of turning around in the driveway and heading back, but now that’s he’s ventured this far he’s all but committed to _at least_ driving up to the place. Maybe someone can tell him exactly how far it is till the next town.

He gives the car a little gas to push it into motion again, making the turn and starting down the little drive towards the hidden-from-view Bed & Breakfast. They’ll have a parking lot so he can turn around if he decides to venture on after stretching his legs. If walking around doesn’t reinvigorate him, he can always book himself a room. He hadn’t seen a little block NO hanging from the hooks in front of the VACANCY lettering below the name of the Bed & Breakfast.

Yes. There’s a parking lot in front of the place, with a few cars scattered in the lot. Surprising considering the lack of traffic he’s seen. The Bed & Breakfast itself seems to manifest among the trees before him. There’s plenty of room to turnabout now, even considering the cars, but that directive has fallen to the back of his mind as he examines the building he is approaching. The two story house certainly has character. The glass in the windows of the place seem to ripple, perhaps chosen to age the residence and give it a rustic charm. The shrubs out in front having grown so large that they completely hide the railings of the front porch – though he can see a few vacant rocking chairs peeking over the greenery. Maybe if daylight wasn’t quickly vanishing the overall effect would be of quiet comfort – a quirky destination nestled among the trees. Right now? The house seems something _more_.

He takes his time getting out of the car, leaving his bag on the front passenger’s seat rather than taking it up the steps with him. He’ll just stretch his legs a bit and then be on his way. The rest of the world seems to have melted away – leaving only the woods, the Inn before him, and the rental car at his side.

Yes, he’ll investigate – just a bit – and then be on his way again. He’s still admiring the outward appearance of the house, the way it blends in with the trees surrounding it. The steep slope of the roof is coated with dark splotches that alter between green and a near-black – moss, perhaps – from the overhanging tree branches. The not-new but not-old shutters bring his attention to the dim light coming from within the house. Someone is there, though he can’t see any movement from within the house.

Tom stands there listening to the rental car hiss and tick as the engine cools. The car immediately on his other side has clearly been parked there for a while, but even that doesn’t hold his interest. He’s forgotten about walking around, enthralled instead by the house before him. Without realizing it he has taken a few steps towards the porch. He continues to search, glancing from window to window in an attempt to seek out any signs of life. Still, only the light from within alerts him of someone else’s presence.

Drawing close enough to touch the chipped white paint of the handrail he reaches out to press the tips of his fingers onto the wooden surface. Why is it we must touch a thing to reassure us of its existence? He has his foot lifted to take the first step upon the porch stairs when he finally turns his attention to the door. The screen door is shut but the other door is standing ajar to reveal the entryway within.

Tom hesitates, the step creaking with the weight he has shifted upon it as he looks beneath the skin of the Bed & Breakfast and into the heart of the building. He can see the hand woven rug on the floor, the fading nearly garish wallpaper that is illuminated by the unseen source of light – but no inhabitants, no staff members, no movement from inside at all. From the number of cars in the lot there should be the noise of idle chatter, of belated dinners, _something._

He’s wide awake now, the exhaustion pushed out of his system by the spike of adrenaline that rushed through him upon seeing the door standing ajar. Who leaves a building open like this? Sure, there’s not a soul else around but in today’s world it just isn’t done.

Despite the urge to turn around and head right back towards the rental car he continues on, lifting his other foot to mount the next step up onto the porch. He’s halfway freaked out, halfway curious – with curiosity winning out at the moment.

If he’s intent on staying, he reasons – or even if he’s not – he should probably check in with someone. Let them know he has stopped – give the name of the place, and if he can find someone, the approximate location in relation to his destination. He looks down as he takes the last step up onto the porch. As he watches, his phone blinks from one bar of service down to nothing.

He stops, the wood of the porch protesting just as the stairs had beneath his feet. No cell service. No cell service on top of the overall vibe he’s getting from the house. His fight or flight instinct swoops towards _FLEE_ and he gives his head a hard shake, “Ha. No. Nope.”

He turns about, intent on leaving this place that lives just on the edge of creepy in his dust. From within the Bed & Breakfast he hears a greeting. “Uh – hullo. You lost? Cause the gas station’s the next turn off the main road.”

Tom turns around again to see an aging man, tucked into fading denim and plaid, and starts to laugh at himself. Seeing another someone in this environment steals all hints of menace from the air. He was edgy because of the absence of people? It was quiet, just quiet. How had he transformed peace into malice? No reason to fear this house steeped in what was surely a rich history. Maybe this man, this agéd man with soft and wrinkled edges, could relay some of that history to him while Tom works to calm himself.

“Need a room for the night, actually.” Tom gives the man a half smile, sheepish that he’d been so on edge merely from being on his own in an unfamiliar place.

“Huh. We don’t get many looking to stay.”

Possibly something to do with the curb appeal? The number of cars in the lot outside would speak against the man’s statement – unless they all belong to staff, who are well hidden within the house.

“Mostly wrong turns. Plenty of vacancies.” The man pushes the screen door open, motioning for Tom to enter and follow to the desk. Once the pair of them are inside the man shuffles over and slips behind the counter to busy himself with pulling a large leather bound ledger out, placing it onto the countertop with a WHUMP. He catches Tom looking at it with a degree of dubiousness. “Oh – we like to keep to tradition here. Got a laptop in the back for bookkeeping purposes. Dolores says it don’t fit with the ‘décor’.”

Tom can practically see the air-quotes around the word as the man rolls his eyes at the concept. Suddenly he’s envisioning it – the old man sitting hunched over the keyboard, hunting and pecking his way through the paperwork, his counterpart hovering just over his shoulder to ensure everything is transcribed properly. He glances at the little typed up sign spelling out room rates. More than affordable. He even has enough currency on him to cover it. Payment taken care of, he focuses on the ledger, at the scrawled names belonging to countless other passersby, and accepts the pen he is being offered so that he can add his name to the list.

The old man watches him write his name below the rest, waiting until after Tom has written out his given name to address him. “So, Tom – prefer upstairs or ground floor?”

Tom pulls his mind back from musings regarding Dolores and this man, one of the apparent owners of the place. Remembering the other cars in the lot he gives a short nod as he replies, “Ah. Whatever um, whatever is available, is fine.”

“Upstairs it is, then. Give you the room to the left soon as you go up. Good view.”

“Of?” Tom accepts the key, an old metal thing that he can’t wait to try in the lock.

The man smiles gently at Tom, “The water. Used t’be the thing that drew people in. The Corianda.” He waves his hand to the surrounding room, in reference to the Bed & Breakfast itself, “Thought about naming th’ place after her, but Dolores said no. Just stick with the classics, Duke. Don’t confuse people.” He shakes his head, scowling, “Cause people might confuse a river with…” The sound of movement from another room stalls his mini-rant.

Tom smiles, already happy with his decision to stop and investigate, his earlier trepidation regarding the Bed & Breakfast well forgotten. Had he driven on he never would have met Duke, or Dolores – who he assumes he will come across at some point during his stay. Pocketing the metal key he gives Duke a nod, “I’ll just erm, pop out and grab my bag. You said upstairs and to the left?”

Probably off to transfer the new addition of information from ledger to laptop, Duke shuffles off down the hall towards the back of the house. “Yup. If you need anything just give us a shout.”

The instruction doesn’t give Tom a moment’s pause until he’s leaned across the driver’s seat to retrieve his bag. Shout? What about the other guests in residence? And he’d completely forgotten about asking about the door being open as he walked up – not that he had noticed a great temperature change from the inside of the house to the outdoors or vice versa. Perk of late summer nestled into these parts perhaps being that they didn’t need to run the air conditioning? During the daytime that might prove problematic though. Sticky, at the least.

Bag retrieved he makes quick work of crossing the short distance from his rental car to the porch, bounding up the front steps again without the previous hesitation. Now he hallway stemming from the ‘lobby’ runs through the heart of the house, the backdoor also standing open. Good for directing a breeze through the house, circulating the air. He pauses to consider the pictures that dot the walls before he tackles the stairs leading to the first floor. Two landscapes, maybe of the surrounding area, maybe just picked because they matched the feel of the house, and a portrait of a young family.

Tom is caught wondering if any of the individuals depicted are Dolores or Duke when he hears the screech of needing to be oiled coils from the back of the house preceding the hard _RAP_ of the screen door as it opens and closes. A woman walks towards him, barefoot, a towel wrapped around her body with just the straps of her bathing suit indicating that she isn’t naked beneath. She stops wringing water from her hair via a matching dark grey towel, pausing her advance when she notices him standing in the hallway just before the staircase. She looks like she’s seeing a ghost. Is it that unexpected to see someone else in the Bed & Breakfast?

“Hello.” Tom offers.

“Leave!” She says one word, nearly gasped, before turning on her heel and exiting the same way she had entered.

Tom focuses on the door, flustered by the warmth of the greeting, before letting his eyes drop to the droplets of water dotting the carpet and the hardwood floors – marking her path. She had been swimming, where? The river? Would this place have a pool? Doubtful, but one never knows.

Duke appears at the second slam of the screen door, leaning out the door with a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose. He notes the water on the floor, then Tom’s perplexed expression. “That Harper? _Told_ her not to slam that door.” Duke shakes his head, “Likes to swim after dinner. Oh – if you’re hungry come on back down and we’ll fix up something.” 

It’s all Tom can do to give an uncertain shrug in reply, belatedly nodding to Duke. The stairs shift and announce his presence as he makes his way up to the indicated room. There is no quiet movement around this Bed & Breakfast, apparently.

The door to the room he has been assigned is unlocked. He tries the key anyway, expecting the mechanism to emit a sound, or resist turning – but the metal key works the lock with ease. Wouldn’t do to have guests unable to gain entry to their rooms. Just as Dolores kept the laptop hidden from view, she probably had Duke exchange the aging locks with something more up-to-date, and had Duke oiling and checking the things every few weeks.

Tom smiles at the thought, noting the luggage stand by the foot of the bed and depositing his travel bag atop it. Just like what he’s seen of the rest of the place this little room is full of character. He turns slowly to soak up as much of it as he can before descending again for a much needed bite to eat. His examination of the wallpaper, curling up at the edge of the chair rail in a few places, is paused when he hears the WHUMP of the screen door again. The bathing suit clad woman – Harper, Duke had called her – must be coming back inside.

He can track her progress via the echoed sounds, from backdoor down the hallway to the stairs, up the stairs to the landing. Which room might be hers? Will she have to pass him by, affording him the opportunity to open the door and introduce himself? It might net the same reaction, even if his intention is to apologize. There is a moment of silence before the sound of footsteps starts again, this time descending the stairs at a faster pace, followed by the low murmur of voices.

It’s not Duke’s voice that resounds through the closed door, but another woman – perhaps Dolores. He can better make out Harper’s words: “No. Not that room.”

What’s wrong with his room? Proximity to hers?

Because he’s curious, he strains to hear Dolores’ reply. “Now Harper…”

“No! Put him somewhere else.”

“Duke’s already put it in the ledger, honey.”

“Make him change it.”

“That’s not how it works, Harper. Man’s paid for a night and that’s the room he was given. No use arguin’ about it—”

Rather than continue to listen in Tom tries to focus on the room once more. There’s nothing that he can notice to suggest the room is unfit for guests – which leaves Harper’s protestations to be purely based on proximity. Maybe if he apologizes if she comes back down for something to eat – after donning a bit more clothing, he hopes – maybe they can start again on better footing.

Further examination of the room is needed to allow for time for the two women to conclude their conversation. Time for Harper to get to her room without having Tom startle her once more.

The dresser on the wall next to him is in need of polishing, though he can smell a hint of furniture cleaner on the air, mixed in with the smell of fresh linens and old wood. He runs the palm of his hand over the top of the bureau as he drifts towards the shelf in the corner. A few books are perched upon it, held in place by a set of carved wooden bookends.

One of the books catches his eye – not a book, but a hand bound set of papers, curling at the edges. The warped cardboard housing stands out against the leather bound books otherwise occupying the shelf. He gently tips worn thing off the shelf, flipping it open to skim a few lines to see if that satisfies his curiosity.

He runs his fingers over the lines of type on the page, appearing to have been painstakingly typed out using an aging typewriter – one where the A key apparently liked to stick. He’s in the middle of reading a vivid description of this very Bed & Breakfast when he becomes aware of footsteps passing by his door.

Harper must be done voicing her protestations.

He waits until he hears the sound of a shutting door before setting aside the text, leaving it flipped open to come back to when he comes back upstairs. Right now the promise of food, and the chance to learn more about his hosts – perhaps even meet the yet unseen Dolores – is calling him.


	2. Two

**T** he floor beyond his door creaks anew as Tom leaves his room once more. First door on the left at the top of the landing. He glances further down the hallway before leaving the first floor, an attempt to try to guess which of the closed doors might belong to Harper. Not that it matters, but her shock over his presence and insistence that he either leave or be moved to a different room has him curious. What were her objections?

At the bottom of the staircase he pauses, eyeing the hallway leading towards the back of the house where he had seen Harper first appear. Sure, hunger demands that he seek out the kitchen and hope that Duke’s promise can be fulfilled, but he suddenly finds himself needing to see the river – ‘The Corianda’ – up close. Was it that body of water that he glimpsed during his drive or merely a tributary, a creek or stream leading into the river itself? And how close is it to the building he’s taking shelter in for the night? Is there a dock? What does the water look like in the fading light of dusk? What might it look like reflecting the soft light from the Bed & Breakfast?

He strides down the hall and out the door, which closes behind him with another resounding _WHAP_. The tight springs might have helped Harper to slam the door. The back of the house has a porch similar to that of the front, spanning the entire side of the house. Not a wraparound, but close. He’s about to descend and walk the short path to the dock extending out over the water when the hinges squeal again to announce someone joining him.

Tom looks back to find Duke standing just a step through the doorway, holding the screen door open rather than allowing it to slam yet again. “Lucky there’s not much cloud cover t’night. She’s beautiful by moonlight.” 

“Yes,” Tom agrees, still on the edge of the stairs. He looks again towards the water. “She is, indeed.” As the words pass his lips a thought occurs, not quite sending a chill through him. This little Bed & Breakfast seems a world all to itself, cut off from all the rest. Without even the hum of an AC unit it is only the sounds of the night and of the surrounding forest that greets his ears. There are no honking horns. There is no distant rumble of motors from the motorway he knows to exist in _somewhat_ close proximity…

Surprisingly, after his initial trepidation regarding the place, he is no longer wary of it. Possibility occurs to him – this could be just what he needs. A place without distractions. Quiet. Calm. Why was the rush to get to the next destination? He could use a few days to perfect the nuances of the next role he is to tackle. His alternative is to get up early the next morning and drive on? Hurry up and wait. No, thank you. 

The way The Corianda reflects the moonlight is enthralling. How might the river look in the light of day? Tom lets his attention drift, skimming along the continuously moving surface of the water to study the dock that juts out. The river is evidently deep enough for swimming, and certainly appears wide enough to allow for travel via boat. He’s yet to note a boathouse, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. And perhaps further exploration will reveal a ramp where they slip canoes or inner tubes into the water to help bring in further proceeds during tourist season.

He’s all but made up his mind. Tom turns back to study the worn but sturdy Bed & Breakfast, and his host who is waiting patiently in the doorway. Had he driven on and arrived in the wee hours at one of the chains there certainly wouldn’t have been an offer for a quick meal to the late arrival. He would have been left to fend for himself.

Tom reaches out to grip the edge of the screen door so Duke can lead the way back inside. “Do you think it would be alright if I stayed a few days? Er - if there’s a room available?”

The right corner of Duke’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Stay as long as you like, Tom. We’re glad to have the company.”

Belly pleasantly full and key in hand, Tom eases his way up the last of the stairs, returning to the landing with a small contented sigh. He’s already begun to figure out the best way to pass from the ground floor to the first without announcing his progress to everyone in the house. He shifts his shoulders, preening to the empty hallway as he makes his way towards his room. He’s a quick study. Give him a few days in this place, a few days to learn its nuances, and he’ll have it all committed to memory. The histories of Duke and Dolores, any guests that may also currently reside, and ….

> _“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.”_

Harper.

Tom pauses at his door, her voice catching him before he can finagle the metal key into the lock to open the door to his room and retire for the night. The door at the end of the hallway, presumably Harper behind it, is ajar and allowing both the muted glow of a yellow light and words to reach him.

> _“But I have promises to keep.”_

Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He lifts his eyebrows for a moment, his face otherwise relaxing as he is tossed back into a memory from his youth. Recitations in front of a sea of others, faces blurring together. All the better to prepare for things yet to come, though at the time it had seemed…

> _“And miles to go before I sleep.”_

Blinking, Tom realizes he’s already halfway between Harper’s room and his own. He silently clears his throat, shaken for the unconscious decision to approach. Well, she _is_ awake. Maybe he can apologize for whatever he’s done to offend her, though he can’t for the life of him figure out what he – a stranger – could possibly have done to warrant her immediate and firm desire that he should leave.

> _“…miles to go before I sleep.”_

He’s never had someone react so strongly in such a negative way, in such an _unwarranted_ negative way. She’d only just become aware of his presence within the Bed & Breakfast. What could she have objected to – other than no longer having the place to herself? From the way Duke spoke it didn’t seem that Harper was a fellow traveler, but some sort of tenant. Staying here for the summer, perhaps? Allowing herself a small span of seclusion to swim after dinner and read to her heart’s content…

Curiosity spurs him on. Reaching out, Tom knocks lightly on the wood paneling, not at all surprised by the sound that coincides. Just like the door to his room, this one serves to support his theory that his hosts are wholly invested in the preservation of this place they call home.

He only has to wait and listen to the movement from within the room for a moment before the door swings open. “Oh. It’s you.” The curiosity over who could be knocking at her door, expressed by a wrinkling of her brow, changes the moment she realizes he is the one who summoned her.

Her hair has dried a shade or two lighter than it had seemed in the hallway downstairs. She’s clearly been brushing tangles from it, though he never was aware of running water to signal that someone was showering. Maybe the walls within the Bed & Breakfast muffle sound better than he first assumed.

And still – _still_ she objects to his presence. What about him offends her so?

“Yes. Well. I. Um.” While he’s preoccupied with mentally counting out how many words he’s said to her in sum, she gives her head a small shake and steps to her right, allowing him further visibility of her room. It’s much the same as his in appearance, though her view isn’t of The Corianda but split – half forest, half small grassy expanse surrounding the Bed & Breakfast.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Still frowning, Tom cuts his eyes to meet hers. “You’ve said as much. I’m sorry to have interrupted your…” he seeks out the right word, lowering his gaze to note the fact that she’s not yet dressed for bed, though still in grey tones.

Was it that he interrupted as she was reading? Aloud? His eyes drift to the bed, made but maybe slightly rumpled – no book – to the bedside table – no book – to the stiff looking wooden chair pulled to a spot near the window – no book there either. Was she reciting from memory?

“Er…”

Harper turns, gaze fixated on the dresser Tom now spies taking up the floor space on the wall next to the bedside table. For someone who perhaps is a summer long tenant, she has surprisingly few personal belongings scattered about. Maybe she, like him, travels light.

“If I – if I pay you. Reimburse you. For your night’s stay. Will you go?” She takes a step towards the dresser, then stalls as if uncertain of her actions. The look she gives him over her shoulder – no longer showing distaste but now pleading urgency. “Grab your bag and get in that rental and forget about this place.”

He’s still preoccupied with mentally counting out how many words he’s said to her in sum when her door shuts, clunking into place with a solid sound that furthers his assumption that while the Bed & Breakfast may appear dated his hosts are wholly invested in the preservation of this place they call home.

Mental review of their exchanges abandoned – a dozen, he’s said maybe all of _a dozen_ words to her – Tom gives himself a light shake as he turns back towards his room. She must really enjoy solitude. Perhaps she’s not a night person. He’ll test his ability to apologize come morning. Hopefully it will be met with something better than a door shut in his face.

He’s not fixated, mind, but as he reenters his own room he finds himself comparing it to what he can recall of Harper’s from the brief glimpse he was afforded. The décor was much the same as his own, which is surprising if she’s a longstanding tenant. Less so, maybe, if she travels light. Her view…. Tom scrunches one eye shut as he tries to remember… hers hadn’t been of the river, but a split view – half forest, half small grassy expanse that extended between the Bed & Breakfast and the trees hemming them in.

_You need to leave._

Now _he_ ’s the one frowning, much as she had been before shutting the door in his face. Tom bypasses the bed, the hand bound book still open and waiting for him to return to it. He opts instead to go to the window. The Corianda has no answers for him as to why Harper wants him gone, but he stares out at it, into the night, regardless.

It’ll bother him until he knows what it is about him that offends her so. It could be that she views him as an interruption to her routine – he certainly had shown up out of nowhere. And just now, just – he glances at his wrist to realize he’s been staring out the window for the better part of an hour – she had been… Reading? Aloud? Or reciting from memory? He hadn’t been afforded time to discover a book hastily tossed aside.

Her room might hold a shelf of books, a thought that brings his gaze swinging around his own environment until he’s looking at the shelf on the wall. He’ll ask her, after he tries to right whatever misstep has occurred. He won’t be staying long enough to need to borrow anything from her. In the time afforded him while not focusing on the next character he’s to inhabit, the well-worn book upon the bed – the pages within speaking of the Bed & Breakfast – will surely tide him over. Perhaps that can be his opener. See if she’s so much as cracked the spine.

He stares down at the hand bound book, ready to resume where he left off. Clearly someone has been thumbing through it, several someones before him had plucked it from its position on the shelf. Words on the page catch his attention –

> _**HE WATCHED HER THROUGH THE WINDOW OF HIS ROOM AS SHE COMPLETED HER MIDNIGHT SWIM. SPOTTED HER ONE OF THE FIRST NIGHTS OF HIS STAY - CUTTING THROUGH THE SILVERY WATER WITH PRACTICED CONFIDENCE…** _

It’s _not_ a history of the place, as he first thought. It’s a novelization. Who had written it? He catches himself, hand hovering over the bound pages, about to scoop it up and flip back to the beginning in the hopes that there will be some answers at the start. He should finish unpacking, first. After that bit of routine is accomplished, then he can relax and read until his eyelids no longer wish to remain open.

But… his bag isn’t quite how he left it. The light jacket, the habitual article of clothing worn that he’d snagged from the car and shoved hastily into his kit, is missing. He’d been unable to fully zip the bag closed with the addition of his jacket but now – now his bag sits neatly zipped shut. The jacket that had kept the upper fourth of his bag stuffed nearly to the point of not being able to zip? Missing.

Tom frowns, lifting his gaze from the travel bag to his wallet and rental car keys that are still sitting on the top of the dresser. Has someone been in his room? His wallet and keys appear untouched. Harper? Duke? Dolores? One of the other guests that he’s neither heard nor seen since stepping out of his rental car and setting foot on the grounds?

His heartbeat is thrumming in his ears, indignation over the loss of his jacket erasing every other thought from his head. It had been hanging halfway out of his bag when he got out of the car!

Before bursting out of his room, ready to wake every last soul in the establishment, he pauses to force the sliding closet door fully open, just to be prepared for the upcoming search for the missing article of clothing.

His jaw drops. The solitary item hanging on the wooden hangers is his black jacket. He nudges it with his fingertips just to reassure himself that it is indeed hanging there, and then steps away. How had he forgotten that he had started unpacking? Sure, it’s habit to unpack, even for a single night’s stay…. Maybe he was more worn through from the drive than he originally thought.

Sheepish, from how quick he’d rushed to mental accusations, he exhales and slowly backpedals away from the outer perimeter of the room. He’d been so very close to storming out to rouse one and all. When he bumps into the corner bedpost his eyes drop from his jacket down to note the guitar case that is propped in the back corner of the closet, half hidden in the shadow cast by his jacket. Surely he would have noticed _that_ as he hung his jacket up… He didn’t think he was that tired.

Tom tilts his head, glad for this new mystery to distract from the shame regarding the assumptions he had made about his hosts. The brown case is shaped much like the battered black case that he’d left at home in London. Is this a remnant from a previous guest? A lost belonging? A gift?

Maybe it serves as explanation for Harper’s dislike of him. She might have developed an attachment to the owner of that case and was taking offense to the fact that he was here in the owner’s stead. It’s another question to ask over the course of the next few days.


	3. [endnotes]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the next chapter, that should follow chapter 2. This is simply something that emerged with a Word Prompt Challenge that was submitted, but should be included with the story all the same.

He wipes his vision clear as he flips the book closed. Something catches his eye as he shuts the book, something he’d missed before, a rushed scrawl of words on the inside of cover - the handwriting not dissimilar from his own:

> _*There are three things you need to know before you read this.*_

> _1\. Don’t trust anything you’ve seen or heard since picking up this up. Put it down. Run. Don’t look back._

> _2\. It doesn’t matter if you believe or not. What you don’t believe in **CAN** hurt you. _

> _3\. If you’re still here, still holding the book and determined to read on, you’re a fool. You can’t win against it. You can’t outwit it._

> _Please._

> _Survive._


End file.
